


Half Of A Whole

by TheWhiteShellMermaid



Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: #The 'let's make the already heavy Twin Engines book unnecessarily long and angsty' project, Donald without Douglas, Gen, they might argue but they're lost without each other, tw: depression, twins need each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteShellMermaid/pseuds/TheWhiteShellMermaid
Summary: Quite simply, Donald arrives on Sodor alone. Without Douglas he is depressed and miserable and the other engines aren't quite sure what to do with this solemn new recruit.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 12





	Half Of A Whole

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so Donald without Douglas. I found this post (links below) on Tumblr and was immediately obsessed. It's not really my idea but I had to right it. I'm honestly surprised this idea hasn't been done before (I don't think). 
> 
> https://mean-scarlet-deceiver.tumblr.com/post/632148098373795840/galinneall-dearg-s-amazing-traintober-piece
> 
> https://galinneall-dearg.tumblr.com/post/631351029910388736/day-7-smoke-i-i-havent-heard-that-name-since-i
> 
> https://mean-scarlet-deceiver.tumblr.com/post/632167348055556096/more-donald-without-douglas-now-with-nearly
> 
> Just look at that art (second link) and tell me you don't love it. I saw it and just about died. It's everything. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't think my two cents does this idea justice. (Let's be honest it deserves an entire multi chapter fic (or multiple) all to itself.

As the sun rises, glinting off the water in the channel and warming the island and its old railway, rousing the engines from their peaceful slumber, the Vicarstown bridge lowers with a metallic groan to admit an unfamiliar engine. The ninth engine. He, because he is, like the others here, sentient, is a Caledonian railway McIntosh 812 class. A mixed traffic engine. 

57646 should be happy. After all, as dieselization sweeps across the mainland and steam engines are being scrapped, he has scored himself a new home in the one last place where a steamer is truly safe. But as he puffs across the bridge onto the Island of Sodor, the final leg of his long journey complete, his eyes are dull and his face blank. His new surroundings are colourful, every engine painted brightly and whistling cheerfully as they pass, but to him they are as monotone as his BR black livery, like a black and white film running on mute.

He pulls into the Vicarstown station, which is bustling with activity, and gives a whistle of his own. Contrary to the others, it is long and mournful, and for those who listen, it tells a tale of heartbreak and loss. 

“Hello!” 

He looks around in search of the voice and finds another mixed traffic engine sitting at the neighboring platform. He too is sentient, painted bright, fire truck red, with a large yellow number five on his tender and a rake of wooden coaches behind him. 

He eyes the red engine carefully. “. . .Hi.” 

The red engine continues. “I'm James, the splendid red engine!” He announces, rather self-importantly. 

57646 huffs and steam ripples out from his undercarriage. “Wonderful.” He says disinterestedly.

James frowns, a bit cross. “You must be the new engine. What's your name?”

“Donald, and -” He cuts himself off, abruptly falling silent. 

There's a long pause. Donald stares blankly at his buffers and James waits. When Donald doesn't continue, he speaks. 

“And what?” 

“Nothing.” 

James might have said more, but at that moment the guard blows his whistle. “Right, that's me! I'm off then!” 

And then he's gone, leaving Donald still studying his buffers. He doesn't know how long he sits there before another, booming voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Hello there! You must be my new engine! 57646, correct?” 

Donald looks up to see a stout gentleman in a crisp suit, complete with a top hat, standing on the platform. 

“Aye sir. Donald if ye would, sir.” He replies flatly.

The man seems pleased. “Ah, you have a name. I do like my engines to have names. Mine is Sir Topham Hatt and I'm this railway’s controller.”

Donald listens but does not reply. His eyes train on something behind the man. His fire flares furiously, he can't stand the sight of this man who bought him and not his brother, who condemned his brother to scrap with his selfishness. He can't.

“Donald, are you listening?” Sir Topham Hatt questions.

Donald's reply is cold. “Aye Sir.” 

The controller continues. “You'll be helping out wherever you're needed. It'll mostly be goods work, perhaps a passenger train or two.” 

“Aye Sir. Glad tae be o’ service, Sir.” He's not, not really. Not when his brother is alone on a cold siding waiting to face the scrapper’s torch. 

“You'll be shedding with Duck on his branch line but you can stay elsewhere if you find yourself elsewhere at the end of the day.”

“Aye Sir.” Donald says again, still staring at something behind the controller. 

“Erm, right.” The man says, unnerved by Donald's lack of eye contact and short monotone answers. “Right. This here is Edward.” He motions to another mixed traffic engine, bright blue with red lining and a number two on his tender. “He will show you around today.” 

Donald gladly removes his eyes from the general direction of Sir Topham Hatt and looks to the blue engine. He's an older engine, very similar in design to James. His smile is kind. 

“Hello!” He whistles cheerfully. “Welcome to Sodor!” 

Donald wants to reply, but he can't bring himself even fake being happy and he stares at his buffers instead. Edward frowns uncertainly. “Uh, well, we'd better get a move on then.” 

Edward pulls out of the station and down the mainline and Donald follows in silence. They venture further into the island, popping in and out of harbours and quarries and mines, and whistling through stations. There is one station, Croven’s Gate, which is situated in a narrow pass at the start of the hills that make up the centre of the island. Here, they stop for a rest and find a race of little engines running on little rails that wind up into the woods. 

Donald watches curiously, having never seen a narrow gauge engine before. They are so small they only have drivers, no firemen, for they have no room. They are nearly taller than they are long and very old looking, their whistles hoarse sounding and their paintwork dusty. 

Edward whistles a greeting to the little engines and turns to Donald. “This is where the Skarloey railway begins.” He explains. “These two are Skarloey and Peter Sam.”

“Hello Edward!” Calls Peter Sam. His livery is a lovely bright green. 

Skarloey, a dusty shade of red, rolls up to the platform. “And who's this?”

Donald tries to smile, but it feels wrong and he stops. “A’m Donald.” He says flatly, and looks at the little old engine's nameplate. 

“Welcome to our island!” Peter Sam toots happily. 

Donald examines the rails in front of him miserably. 

“you alright there, boyo?” Skarloey asks, concerned by the new engine’s solemn response. 

“Maybe he's homesick.” A new voice suggests and they look up to see a little orange diesel trundle down from the hills. 

Donald hates diesels. He hates the smell they leave in their wake and he hates the way they're killing off steamers. But most of all, he hates how they took over his old railway and condemned his twin brother to his fate in the scrapyard. 

“A’m nae homesick!” He snaps crossly and something dark flashes across his face. “A’m juist disturbed by the sight o’ ye, ye dirty wee diesel!” 

The other engines are taken aback. The little diesel looks about to burst into tears and Skarloey and Peter Sam look quite cross. Edward lets out a shrill whistle. “Donald!” 

“What?” Donald sneers. “Ah thought this island wis a diesel free zone. A’ve bin disappointed!” 

The little diesel is in tears now and Skarloey is trying to comfort him. Peter Sam, on the other hand, looks ready to blow his safety valve. “Oi! What's wrong with you! Apologize to Rusty!” 

Donald whistles, that low, mournful sound that doesn't match his current mood. “Ah wilnae!”

“Why the hell not?!” Peter Sam demands, and Edward and Skarloey look at each other in disbelief. 

“Because!” Donald shouts. “His kind are nothing bit vermin! They shuid a’ be obliterated fur whit they've dane!”

The other engines’ jaws drop. Rusty, the little diesel, suddenly reverses backwards into the woods, still crying. 

“Oh, nice!” Edward says crossly, finally speaking up. 

Donald just sneers and puffs away. He thunders down the mainline, his fire flaring and his boiler fit to burst. 

“Donald!” His driver shouts. “Woah, boy! Slow down!” He applies the breaks, but this only upsets the engine more.

“Dinnae tell me whit to do!” He yells and forces his brakes back off. 

However, his crew see a siding ahead, and slam on the brakes again, this time succeeding and pulling in, to a stop. They hop out and walk around to face their engine. Donald just averts his eyes. 

“Dinnae talk to me.” He says. 

They ignore him. “What has gotten into you?! We know you're upset right now, but that was ridiculous! The poor guy barely said two words to you!” 

This doesn't help at all. “Upset?!” Donald screams. “Ye have na idea how A’m feelin’ right noo!” 

“That doesn't mean you can just - you should be grateful you're here! Do you even realize how lucky you are -”

Donald wheeshes steam crossly. “GRATEFUL? LUCKY? MAH BROTHER’S BEEN SCRAPPED BECAUSE OF YE PRATS!” He screams, and he might have ran them over if they hadn't had the foresight to get off the tracks. 

“Donald please -” 

“DINNAE TALK TO ME!” 

His crew quickly backed away, exchanging a worried look as they did. They knew they'd made a very grave mistake. 

o0o

Later that night at the sheds, Edward is telling the other engines of the incident at Croven’s Gate with Donald. 

“And then he called all diesels vermin and said they should all be obliterated for what they've done.” He finishes the story. 

“Good grief.” Says Henry. “I might not be the biggest fan of diesels, but Rusty’s a good guy. He didn't deserve that.” 

“I concur.” Gordon agrees. “He's been here less than 24 hours and he's already causing trouble.”

If he could have shrugged, James would have. “He seemed subdued when I saw him. Barely even noticed my lovely red paint.”

“There's something off about him if you ask me.” Thomas puts in. “He barely reacted when I said hi. Just stared at his buffers.”

“Have you heard his whistle?” Asks Percy. “It sounds so sad!” 

The others agree with this too. It is common for sentient engines to pitch their whistles to correspond with how they are feeling and Donald's sounds very sorrowful indeed. 

“Well, some engines have naturally low-sounding whistles but yes, he is an odd one.” Edward says. The old engine doesn't quite know what to think of the newcomer either.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the island, Duck sits in his birth studying his new shed mate with some uncertainty. On one buffer, he is glad for the company, but on the other, he has heard about what had happened with the narrow gauge engines and is unsure. 

Donald has been silent all evening though, has barely said two words since the shouting match with his crew, save for the sounding of his whistle as he entered the sheds. Duck had been startled by how depressed and full of grief it was. As he looks over to Donald now, he sees the bigger engine just staring blankly at the rails. 

“So. . .” Duck starts, searching for something to say. “Are you doing track inspection over there or what?” 

Donald's eyes slide slowly up to look at him, but he doesn't answer. Duck fumbles, slightly creeped out by this. “Uh, so. . .you're from Scotland right?” 

Donald narrows his eyes. “Aye, ye git a problem wi’ that?” 

“No!” Duck replies hurriedly, not wishing to get on this engine’s bad side. “Not at all. Just. . .making conversation.”

Donald glowers at him. “Well dinnae.” 

“Um, okay then.” 

With that, they fall into a heavy silence, and slowly, their fireboxes cooling, they fall asleep. Donald sleeps fitfully, memories of his brother unsettling him. Across the island at Tidmouth, Edward dreams of a black tender engine, cold and alone in a scrapyard. Not knowing any better, he assumes it to be Donald. 

o0o

So yes. When Donald arrives on Sodor, he is alone. 

The other engines aren't quite sure what to make of this solemn new recruit, as serious and aloof as he is, and Donald doesn't give them much to work with. In fact, he doesn't give them anything to work with at all. 

Simply, he gets on with his work and scarcely says a word to anyone, and though he is a hard worker he still finds himself in the midst of several unfortunate mishaps. 

Firstly, he loses Thomas’ special coach. This results in a cross Thomas, very cross passengers and, worst of all, a cross Sir Topham Hatt. Donald can do nothing but blame himself, for he had been distracted by thoughts of his twin brother, left in Scotland for scrap. 

Secondly, he accidentally backs into a signal box. In his defense the rails were slippery that day, but it still upsets the signalman (who lands in Donald’s tender when it crashes through the wall) and once again results in a rather cross Sir Topham Hatt. By now, Donald misses his brother too terribly to really care. 

Lastly, he destroys a horribly spiteful brakevan, not entirely by accident. 

He had been sitting in a siding at Wellsworth station when James had puffed up, out of breath and clearly exhausted. He was hauling a long, heavy line of noisy trucks with a particular brakevan bringing up the rear. Donald, who had been resting, pried open an eye when he heard the trucks and the van screeching.

“Hold back! Hold back!”

The damn things were playing their usual tricks and the brakevan was their ringleader. 

James, defeated, called out when he saw Donald. “Oh, please, help me up the hill!” He pleaded. “The trucks are playing their tricks!” 

Donald grumbled, cursing the train, as he pulled out and coupled up to the brake van. The hill in question was, unfortunately for all involved, the one they called Gordon’s hill. Donald pushed and James pulled and the van dropped its brakes, cackling spitefully. The trucks joined in. James was out of steam and Donald was getting quite fed up with the whole ordeal. 

“Och, quit yer games!” He finally snapped crossly. 

The trucks screeched with laughter. “Says who? says who?” 

“Rusty Scottish scrap iron!” The brakevan cackled. 

“Scrap iron! Scrap iron!” The trucks copied. “We don't listen to scrap iron!” 

Donald saw red. He pushed harder. “Move, ye wee prats! Move!” He yelled. 

“You should be scrapped!” Taunted the van loudly. 

“Scrap him! Scrap him!” The trucks screeched. 

It should have been me. Not you. Never you. The thought rose in Donald’s smoke box and he shoved it away. “CLAM UP! THE LOT O’ YE!” He screamed, and pushed harder still. 

There was a woody creaking sound and the van yelled. “Oh! Ow! I'm breaking up!” 

Donald sneered. “Ye’r fine! And if ye’r nae, I dinnae care! Ye’r nothin’ but a muckle nuisance!” 

Donald pushed harder, intent on getting the train up the hill. The creaking came again and the guard jumped clear just in time for the van to scream as it splintered into pieces. 

“Serves ye right!” Donald fumed. 

The rest of the train slid back, into Donald, and James yelped from up front. “What's going on back there? Donald?! What happened?” 

Donald, who seldom ever spoke to anyone, did not reply. He plowed through the wreckage to the top of the hill, where James braked and his crew climbed out. But before anything could be said, Donald backed down the hill. He passed a surprised Edward, who had arrived with the breakdown train after hearing the noise, but did not stop. He reversed down the line at speed and was gone. 

The whole incident had again resulted in a cross Sir Topham Hatt, but privately Donald thought he was more annoyed by the confusion and delay that had been caused than the actual destruction of the brakevan. After all, pretty much everyone complained about that thing and it was not very useful at all. 

On top of all of this, Donald has a deep toned whistle, which has caught the attention of some particular engines. 

“He sounds like a bus!” Henry, the large green number three engine snickers.

“Or a ship!” James, the splendid red number 5 engine adds. 

“Tugboat Annie!” Gordon, the big blue number 4 express engine laughs. 

Donald is not in the mood. He gives them a tired once over and sighs, thinking of what he and his brother would do if only he were here.

“Och, git a life ye three.” He grumbles as he rolls past. 

The other engines frown. This is not the reaction they'd been expecting. Then again, perhaps they should have.

“You're not still cross about the brakevan thing are you?” James questions. “Personally I think it deserved its fate. Good riddance, I say! I'm surprised no one crushed it sooner. Nothing but trouble it was!” 

Donald rolls his eyes. “Ah dinnae care aboot that stupid brakevan!” He snaps, and puffs away. 

James frowns after him. “I think he does.” 

“Definitely does.” Gordon agrees.

“I don't know.” Says Henry. 

The other two look at him. “About what?”

“Donald.” Says Henry. “I just don't know what to make of him. He acts like he has about as many emotions as a brick wall and he doesn't speak unless it's to tell someone off, and even that's rare. It's like something about him is broken.” 

“He's probably just bitter about having to leave his old railway.” Gordon suggests.

“Or about having to leave someone he knew there.” James adds.

“Maybe.” Agrees Henry, though he doesn't seem convinced.

o0o

Slowly, the days seep into weeks, and then months and Donald's luck improves. One morning, as fall is bleeding into winter, he awakens to find a thick blanket of snow covering the island and his crew readying a snowplough. 

He stares sullenly out of his shed and thinks of his twin. They used to plough the snow together back in Scotland, clearing the tracks for everyone. It was one of their favourite jobs to do together. 

He's never done it alone. 

“Why do we hae tae do this?” He complains as his crew fasten the plough onto him. “Cannae someone else dae it?” 

His driver tried to smile. “Because you're good at it, bud.”

His fireman pats his side as they climb into his cab. “Come on, Donnie, you love snow clearing.” 

Donnie. That was what his brother used to call him.

Something fractures inside Donald then. “Don't call me that!” He snaps.

His crew sigh knowingly as they set off and Donald clears the line in silence. He is lost in thought when they pull up to a junction. The snow is falling softly and he can hear other engines in the distance and for a moment, he forgets and is about to ask his brother which way they should go.

Before he can, he remembers. 

“Donald?” His driver calls. “The signal’s green.”

Donald pulls away from the junction and continues, alone. He spends the day clearing lines and drowning in thoughts of his twin. 

He does not realize he's crying until it's far too late. 

Luckily, it's only Edward and Percy who notice. They are waiting at a station when Donald puffs through. Edward looks, and is about to call a greeting, but stops. He is alarmed to see tears streaming down the Scottish engine’s face. 

“Donald?!” He calls. “What's wrong?” 

Donald, of course, doesn't answer and keeps going. Edward is unsurprised by this, but still quite concerned. 

“Maybe he just really hates snow clearing?” Percy suggests unconvincingly, though he too is concerned. 

Edward frowns as he stares after their number nine. There is no number ten, not yet. Edward has a dreadful feeling that there should be. 

“I don't think so, Percy.” He says quietly. “Something’s not quite right with him.”

Percy rocks a bit on the rails. “Henry thinks so too.” He says. 

o0o

The months fade into years. To Donald, it feels like centuries. 

One night, Henry is in the works and Donald volunteers to take the flying kipper. He has come to like taking night trains, whether they smell like fish or otherwise. He likes the quiet and the dark. 

He puffs along the line, delivering fish to everywhere he's supposed to. It goes smoothly and soon he is on his way home. He drops his crew off at the station nearest where they live and continues on to his shed. 

His thoughts are filled with memories of another night, years prior. Him and his brother had taken a nighttime goods train, but the previous day had been long and they were very tired. They had started off bickering, which eventually evolved and before they quite realized it they were laughing and joking and messing about. Even their crews, who were also sleep deprived, had joined in. They had never had such fun while pulling a train before. It was the kind of fun Donald would never have again, not without his twin. 

Ah should ha’ gone back. Ah should never ha’ left ye. Ah’m sorry.

He rolls to a stop at a signal, even though it's green. Tears run down his cheeks and he clenches his teeth. He doesn't move. Even after so long, he is unaccustomed to feeling so alone. Twins aren't meant to be alone. 

He cries harder. The night wears on. At some point, he drifts off into a fitful sleep.

Thick fog swirls through the night air. Donald shivers and looks around, unsure of where he is and hardly able to see further than his own buffers. He rolls forward slowly, the old rails creaking under wheel. 

Suddenly, a deep whistle sounds from somewhere in the fog and the sound of an engine puffing grows louder, closer. Donald jolts in shock, for he recognizes it.

“Brother? Is that you?” He calls.

“Donnie!” A familiar voice replies, fearful. 

A shape like a steam engine rushes past him like a cold wind. It's more fog and steam than solid form and its whistle is shrill, terrified. 

“They're after me!” 

Donald looks around him, the fog swirling and obscuring his surroundings. Just when he thinks he's alone again, he gets a sharp bump from behind and he gasps.

“Who's there?! Brother?!” 

“Donnie!” The voice replies. 

He hears pistons pumping again and he rolls forward. Ahead, a red light glows through the dense fog and he realizes it's a signal. Just past the signal, on the same line, the same hazy shape of an engine sits, idle for now. Fog and steam dance around it, cold and warm together. The most eerie thing about it is its face, for it hasn't got one, save for two gaping holes where it's eyes should be. 

Donald stops, and he feels tears prick his eyes. “I'm sorry.” 

It ignores him. “They won't help me! No one will help me find you!” 

As the sun rises, coloring the sky red, Duck wakes to find the neighbouring birth empty. 

Donald should be back by now, he thinks. Perhaps he was delayed. 

Duck sits, and he waits. The sun continues its ascent. Duck worries. The firelighter has already lit his fire and he has just enough steam so he decides to take a look down the line. He knows Donald was running crewless for the last stretch, so if he ran into trouble he'd have to sit and wait to be found. 

It does not take him long to find the missing engine, for when he rolls up to a signal, there he is facing him. Donald is still, his eyes closed. For a moment, Duck thinks he's sleeping and calls his name as he rolls closer. There are dark circles under Donald's eyes and, alarmingly, tear tracks on his cheeks. 

“Donald?” Duck tries again. “Donald?” 

Finally, Donald cracks open his eyes. They are red-rimmed and empty. 

“Whit dae ye want, Duck?” He grumbles.

“Are you okay, Donald? You realize the signal’s green right?” 

“A’m fine.” Donald replies noncommittally. 

Duck is growing tired of this, for it has been years. “No you're not, Donald. You are always miserable. God, I've never seen you not miserable. What's wrong? I won't tell anyone.” 

Donald rolls back and forth, his eyes closed again. “Ah left him.” He whispers.

Duck frowns. “Who?” 

“Mah brother, Duck!” He cries, startling the great western. 

Duck sighs sadly. “A lot of engines have siblings they've had to leave. I had to leave mine too.” 

“Ye dinnae understand, Duck! Ah left mah twin brother in Scotland for scrap!” He practically wails. “Ah left him and he wis scrapped! Mah twin!” 

“Of course.” Duck whispers. “That makes sense. Do you know for sure if he was. . .you know?”

There are fresh tears running down Donald's cheeks. “We tried tae escape th’gither bit we were caught ‘afore we even git oot o’ the yaird. The diesels dragged him aff tae the scrapyard then. Ah wanted tae gang back for him bit mah crew refused.” 

Duck isn't quite sure how to handle this. If only Edward were here, he'd know what to do. “It's not your fault, Donald.” He says instead.

Donald doesn't agree. “It should hae bin me. It should hae bin me.” 

“Don't say that.” Duck replies. He looks around. It is almost completely light out now. “We should get back to the shed. The first trains will be out soon.”

“Then go.” Donald says without looking up. 

Duck sighs. “Donald, you can't stay here. You're blocking the line. And we have work to do.” 

Donald huffs and steam ripples out from his undercarriage. “I dinnae care. Juist lea’ me alone.” With that, he shuts eyes again.

Duck frowns. He moves around, getting behind Donald and pushing him back to the shed. The other engine does not protest. When they arrive, he rolls to the back corner of the shed and stays there. 

o0o

The years wear on. Donald hates this place. He hates his crew, for making him leave his brother. He hates the engines, because none of them are his brother. He hates Sir Topham Hatt, for only buying him. He tries not to hate, but he does anyway. 

One night, he is taking a nighttime goods train over the bridge to Barrow. The world is dark, quiet and peaceful. Most of the trucks are sound asleep, the only sounds they make are that of their axles creaking and their soft snores as they role along behind him. 

This is the kind of train he likes taking, quiet and obedient. 

He stares up at the inky sky, at the moon and the stars, and thinks of his brother. The raw agony from years ago has softened to a dull ache in his boiler, but it's still painful, he still misses his twin too terribly to put into words. He will never be whole without his brother. 

He rides on through the night, until the lights of Barrow are visible through the dark. As he rolls into the yard, he can hear diesel horns blaring in the distance.   
He looks around as his crew go to speak to the guard. Odd shadows dance across the walls and rails, and strange sounds echo across the area, which is lit with an eerie orange glow. Nearby, several grubby diesel engines sit in a dilapidated shed. Some are asleep, some are not. One of them, a hazard striped shunter, notices him.

“Look at that oversized kettle.” He says loud enough for Donald to hear. 

“Heap of old scrap metal. What's he still doing riding the rails?” Another replies.

“His boss must be crazy, keeping around a liability like him.” The first one agrees. 

Donald rolls his eyes and lets off steam crossly. “Awright, ye lot, ye git something tae say tae me? Come say it tae mah face and we’ll see whit happens!” 

When the diesels don't reply, he continues. “Whit? Were ye expectin’ me tae gang cryin’ back tae mah shed?” He sneers. 

By now, his crew have returned and he sets off again before anyone can reply. He leaves his train in an empty siding and finds a turntable to turn around before leaving. 

Before they can clear the yard, however, they are flagged down by the signalman. His driver leans out of his cab to talk to him.

“The points are jammed.” He explains. “You'll have to take the other way out.” He motions towards another line, leading into the shadows. “It's a bit longer. I suppose you can wait if you want but it might be awhile.” 

But Donald wants to get home, doesn't want to hang around this diesel infested yard any longer than necessary, so they head down the dark line. As they move slowly through the shadows, he can see strange shapes looming at the edges of his lamp light. A cracked funnel here, a dented cab there. Something that might be a tender over there. A rusty creaking sound over that way. Donald’s boiler runs cold and he rumbles to a stop. 

His driver swears as he can feel his engine trembling. “Why didn't he tell us this line led through a scrapyard?” 

His fireman shrugs. “Let's just get the hell out of here.” 

Donald continues slowly, with some encouragement from his crew. He glances fearfully from side to side, his wheels wobbling. They don't get very far before Donald stops abruptly, startled by a sound like the hiss of steam, in the darkness. 

“What was that?” His driver questions, nervous now too. 

“It sounded like a steam engine.” Donald replies. “But. . .”

His fireman shivers. “All the engines here are dead. . .right?” 

The spinning of rusted wheels on old rails is suddenly sharp in the silence of the scrapyard. Donald jerks forward, his coupling chain rattling. An old shed looms out of the darkness to his left.

“W-who's there?” He calls quietly. 

At first, there's no reply. Then, a voice. 

“Are you a fat controller’s engine?” 

Donald doesn't hesitate in his reply. “Aye. And ye?” 

“Escaping.” 

Donald frowns, squinting through the night. “Are ye tae be scrapped, or are ye lost?”

The voice answers. “Both. But we're fresh out of coal.” 

Before Donald can answer, there is a metallic shuffling out beyond his circle of light. 

“what was that?” The voice sounds a bit nervous. 

A second, rather nasally voice responds. “diesels!”

“Hush Toad!” The original voice hisses. “You'll get us caught!” 

Donald frowns. “How many o’ ye are there?” 

“Three in total. I'm Oliver, that other voice is my brake van, Toad.” 

At that moment Donald makes a decision. “Haud on. A’m aff tae git ye oot o’ ‘ere.”

Quickly and yet carefully, he reverses and switches over to Oliver's line. His lamp illuminates the interior of the shed to reveal an old tank engine and a rusted black tender engine, sound asleep. The tank engine, Oliver, starts in surprise, his mouth gaping open.

“Douglas! Wake up, you lazy tender! This guy looks exactly like you!” He exclaims.

Donald freezes. I haven't heard that name since I arrived. . .

The other engine moans and pries open his eyes. “Och, dinnae yell laddie. . .och, what's that light?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut again, to which Oliver huffs. “Open your eyes, Doug, we found him!” 

Donald can hardly believe his eyes. Here his brother is, if not yet safe than at least in one piece. Alive. 

“Dougie?” 

As quick as he can, he switches over to Douglas’ line and rolls cautiously up. Douglas opens his eyes again and he looks exhausted. 

“Donnie?” 

Their buffers meet, and it's the closest two engines can ever get to a hug. Donald chokes on a sob as he presses closer, pushing his brother into the buffers behind him. 

“Y-ye’r alive. Ah thought ye’d been scrapped. Ah thought ye were dead.” He gasps. 

Douglas smiles weakly, through his own tears. “Ye think Ah’d give up that easily?” 

Donald trembles slightly. “Ah saw the diesels drag ye off - Ah thought - Ah wanted tae gang after ye but mah crew refused. They said we couldn't afford to get in any more trouble. Ah fought them on it, but they forced mah controls.” 

There is a pause, during which something screeches, metal on metal out in the surrounding darkness. “Ye dinnae hate me, do ye?” Donald whispers shamefully. 

“No, Donnie.” Douglas assures. “Ye were right tae get oot while ye still could. It gave me comfort knowin’ ye were safe and free.” 

Donald breaks down then, as if this is all he wanted to hear. “Ah would ha’ let them drag me off tae, if it meant I could ha’ stayed with ye!” He cried. 

Beside them, Oliver watches with interest. He would have gladly given them some space, but that is rather difficult when he is right beside them and physically unable to move. 

“Uh, guys? I hate to interrupt, but we should probably get our bunkers moving before we get caught.” He says instead. 

“He's right though.” Says Donald, calming down some. 

His crew ventures out from where they'd been talking to Oliver’s crew (there is no sign of Douglas’ crew and no one mentions them) and couples up the twins before climbing into his cab and reversing up the siding. Soon, Oliver and Toad are coupled to Douglas and the cavalcade sets off through the scrapyard. 

It takes a while, the group startling at every unidentifiable sound and random light, but eventually, they are racing down the mainline, bound for Sodor. The sun is just beginning to break over the horizon as they cross the Vicarstown drawbridge, and Donald whistles, for the first time in years, high and joyful. 


End file.
